


Let Them Talk

by SharaMichaels



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Nudity, Romance, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 14:33:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7319029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharaMichaels/pseuds/SharaMichaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Comte Philippe de Chagny is found dead in suspicious circumstances. Or so the newspapers call it. La Sorelli, prim ballerina of the Opera Populaire, is known to have been "on good terms" with the count. She knows she had been seeing him a lot more than any of those "gossip loving snobs" attending the opera suspect, but weather or not she truly loved him it's a mystery, even to her. Faced with the loss, Sorelli grieves alone and recalls the pleasant evenings in which they liked to forget about the chains that tied them to their oh so different worlds...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Them Talk

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Tagged it as nudity mainly because some conversations happen on a bed, with both participants naked, and I thought some people might want a warning for that. There's however no explicit sex depicted in this story; I'll let that to your imaginations.  
> 2\. I haven't really researched the language of the times; whenever I write fanfiction, I do it for fun and for the sake of finishing things. In the end it's more about sharing my headcanons in a more polished form, than writing a novel ready for publishing. I hope you'll forgive me for that one.  
> 3\. English is not my first language (as I have mentioned in the notes of the other stories as well). If you spot any grammar mistakes, I will try to correct them. No harsh feelings.

 

“I suppose from now on, Sorelli will have to carry her shoes by herself.”

She stopped dead in her tracks next to the lot of giggling young ballerinas. They noticed they’d been discovered and fled the place before Sorelli had the chance to question them. A black premonition started in her heart as she exited the opera house to head home. As she waited for her carriage to be ready, she spotted, on the sidewalk opposite to her, a young boy pausing with his cigarette hanging at the corner of his parted lips. She felt his eyes linger on her for an unbearable amount of time before she finally threw him a menacing glare.  

“What are you looking at?”   

The boy hid his face in the lifted collar of his coat and ran away, just as her driver stopped the carriage in the front of the main entrance.  

There was a small store near her flat and she demanded the driver to drop her there. Upon arriving at her destination, Sorelli climbed out, fixed her coat and walked in with her head held high.  

“Do you have any more newspapers left? I was too busy to check today’s this morning.”  

The man behind the counter gave her a strange look and handed her that day’s newspaper. Sorelli snatched it out of his hand, with her eyes still locked on his features. She was getting annoyed by all the odd glances she was receiving and was ready to lash at the poor man, had the name she was expecting to see not caught her attention by being paired with the most heart wrenching of titles.  

**Comte Philippe de Chagny found dead in suspicious circumstances**

Sorelli’s eyes widened in horror. She put the paper down to hide the tremor that took hold of her hands; when her gaze met the one of the vendor, she noticed his eyes were full of pity. Had she betrayed herself in that very moment, or had he known all along?  

“He was… He was an acquaintance. You know, he really liked the opera… I also knew his brother… and his mistress…”

Her voice shook and she felt tears poking at the corners of her eyes. The shopkeeper tried a compassionate gesture over the counter, but she flinched away from his hand, threw him an offended look and ran away, grabbing the newspaper on the way out.  

She wandered outside in a daze and it wasn’t until a while later that she noticed her hands were convulsing around a newspaper she didn’t pay for. A slight dizziness came over her and breathing became a struggle. She wobbled along her street, clinging onto the walls of the buildings until she reached the right door.  

The key was unsure in her trembling hand and she needed a good number of tries before she managed to let herself in her flat. Her flat… nothing from what she was looking at was hers. No… it did _belong_ to her, but there was nothing from what she called her home that she herself acquired. They were all gifts: the place, the furniture, the small decorations… everything was paid with noble money. Only the best for Philippe de Chagny’s most special friend.  

Sorelli paced the room still in her street clothes, uncertain of what to do with herself. Eventually, she sat down on the bed, on what used to be _his side_ , and stretched the crumpled newspaper in her hands, to read the whole article.  

The body did not reveal more than the title, but that was as much as she needed to know. When she heard the girls in the corps du ballet laughing at her, she imagined the Count was getting a Countess and, until she had reached the shop, she’d only been hurt in her pride. He dared to get engaged and not tell her in advance! In front of the bitter truth, Sorelli found herself petrified by grief. There was no mention of him in the obituary, no information concerning the funeral. Surely the family was keeping it a private matter and only the closest acquaintances were to be notified. And what was she to him? Her eyes scanned the room as the memories of all their times together stormed through her mind. A whole life had passed between those walls. His voice echoed in her brain; all the words in the world have been spoken there, all the emotions exchanged between them… And through the haze of all their conversations, like tiny beacons of clarity, laid all the tones in which he had spoken her name.  

The sobs came out her throat without her noticing, just like she didn’t notice her hands clutching the covers in sudden despair. It was burst of emotion she didn’t see coming, something she did not expect to ever feel in the event of a break up. She knew he was going to leave one day, she was at peace even with the possibility of going from lovers to strangers in the span of a single night. But his disappearance was caused by something that could had very well been out of his control. The Count was dead. Philippe was dead. He stopped existing, not only in their little made up world, but in the outside world as well. And she would never know if his last thoughts in regards to her person were of love, of hate or of complete indifference.  

Sorelli took off of her coat and shoes, and curled up on the side of the bed which belonged to Philippe, whenever he decided to stay the night. Her hands moved above her head, guided by the trace of a memory, and retrieved a small pillow out of the bunch. She held it to her heart and inhaled its scent; it had been a few days since he’d last been there, but if she concentrated enough, she could still sense the hard smell of his shaving soap, which always lingered in the whole flat days after he would visit. She buried her face in the material and remembered the feel of his hair on her face, his hands on her back, his lips on hers during those long evenings in which they’d ignore every chain that tied them to their oh so different worlds…  

The prim ballerina had never used the word love in relation to the Count of Chagny. She knew she’d never be the Countess – Philippe had told her that enough times – and she knew very well just how the differences between them prevented her to even be able to show herself at his arm. But in the intimacy of her room, tucked away from the vicious eyes of the world, where they would lovingly stroke each other’s arms in blissful silence, Sorelli could not believe that through the veins she was caressing ran a blood that was any different from hers.  

 

There were times during the summer when he would lay in that bed, naked and uncovered, with his back arched in a concave curve and his eyes closed, lost in thought. She would sit next to him, propped on one elbow, watching the sunset light play through his hair. During those times she considered herself the luckiest woman in Paris, to see the Count so exposed, so beautiful, letting his guard down only for her. He looked so vulnerable there that she would not be able to restrain a small malicious gesture. A long time of silence would pass and then, while the sun was throwing its last rays over their bodies, she loved to idly trace a finger from his hip to his shoulder, taking pleasure in seeing his pores revolt involuntarily underneath her touch and the fine hairs spike up in alert. Philippe’s response was usually a tiny moan of protest accompanied by a boyish smile; then he’d blindly search for her hand, hold it for a second in his and press a gentle kiss on her finger before giving it back.  

“Keep your hands to yourself, mademoiselle.”  

With those words he’d get up, get dressed and head out to the door. She’d play her next part with enthusiasm, always pleading for one more kiss, for one more caress, for one more hour. He’d always let his fingers linger on the doorknob before granting her one last good night peck on the lips. A moment of such surprising intimacy that she’d get the courage to hang onto his arm and throw another hopeless desire into the void.  

“Please stay the night.”  

Sorelli never forgot the first time he agreed.   

 

It was autumn and by the time he got to her flat, the sky was dark already. He was laying on his stomach, breathing softly, so young and beautiful in the golden light of the gas lamp. Sorelli pulled the blanket over his exposed back, commenting about the chilly air, before curling up beside him. She brushed a few messy strands of hair out of his sleepy eyes and threw him her most luminous smile.  

“Please stay the night, Philippe.” No intent, no expectations, no actual demands. Just a line from the script that’s been dictating her life in the flat ever since she moved there.  

“All right.”  

His words threw her aback and she stared at him wide-eyed, expecting an explanation. He remained quiet; with his eyes closed, he slowly pulled the blanket around his shoulders and curled up on his side of the bed. A few moments later, when he noticed she hadn’t made a move, he lifted a sleepy gaze towards her.  

“What happened?”  

She shook her head in disbelief.  

“I’m sorry, I just- You never stayed before.”  

Philippe sighed and stretched a hand in her direction; the fingers met the cheek and stroked gently, under the observation of the most beautiful eyes in the world.  

“I’m exhausted. My staff knows very well they are not to question my absences. If they want to gossip anyway, there is nothing I can do to stop them.”  

Her gaze was still fixed on his hand, which now laid idly on the pillow next to her.  

“Do you… Are you-?”  

“What is it, Sorelli?”  

The sound of her name in his voice made her lift her head with a quick movement.  

“Are you doing this for you, or… for me?” Philippe’s eyebrows curved in confusion and she tried to explain: “This whole place… you paid for it. From that regard, it belongs to you, it _your house_.”  

The Count sighed in understanding; he pressed a finger on his lover’s lips, to silence words that could potentially hurt.  

 “I’m doing this for the both of us. Would like to you join me?”  

She smiled in return and reached for the gas lamp. When the room succumbed to the darkness, she slid next to him and dared to stroke his leg with her toes. Philippe found her hand and squeezed the slender fingers before casually laying his palm over hers.  

“Good night, Sorelli.”  

 

_I heard the young viscount of Chagny loved that little Daaé girl so much, it almost took his breath away. Literally._

And what about the _Count_ of Chagny then? Did he ever loved Sorelli? It was a question she had no answer to, no more than she did for its mutual. Did Sorelli ever loved Philippe? Could she had loved him if he had ever allowed it?  

It was a weather worth of the mightiest winter, despite being no later than October, when she thought herself in love for the first time. Sorelli was sitting with her legs underneath her, rubbing attentive hands on her lover’s back.  

“You are so tense tonight, Philippe. Have my embraces been subpar? Is there something wrong?”  

He tilted his head back, pondering.  

“Nothing. I’m just very busy these days, that’s all.” A grimace and a wince of pain: “Be careful there, will you? That one hurt.”  

He couldn’t see Sorelli bowing her head down, but her felt the unmoving warmth of her hands pausing on his back. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and childish:  

“Philippe? Do you think I’m stupid?”  

“What?”  

He turned around with a rapid move; sad eyes looked at him from behind.  

“I heard some people talking in the foyer the other day. ‘Sorelli, she must be quite the catch. The most beautiful eyes I have ever seen and the legs to make the pope himself a man of questionable morals. And the best part, she wouldn’t be talking too much, it at all.’”  

The Count looked at her with a sense of pity. It was true they never had the most spiritual conversations, but lately that one had been true concerning his younger brother as well. He’d never imagined his lack of communication might be offensive to the ballerina, but the last thing he wanted was for her to feel _used_.  

“I can assure you I find you very intelligent, _darling._ ”  

The term of endearment made her shudder and lift wide eyes in his direction. He sustained her gaze and draped the blanket around her shoulders.  

“Sorelli, you are an artist. One of the most exquisite kinds, I must add. It takes a lot of intelligence to be a fine artist, I think.”  

“You think…”  

“I’d venture to say _I know_.”  

He cradled her face with one hand and she covered it with hers.  

“I wish you could stay…”  

“Tonight I came here to stay, I told you-”  

“… forever.”  

He removed his hand and his tone grew serious.  

“Oh, Sorelli, you know that will never be possible.”  

“I know, I know. That’s why I don’t even dare to ask it of you. I’m just wishing… Just like I wish for all the things that are never going to happen.”  

Philippe decided to pull the plug on the confession. There was nothing better for them than to enjoy every present moment they were given; at forty-one, he had long lost the habit of dreaming about true, all-consuming love and wished for no such complications from _her_ part. He kissed her simply, with no intent for more, and heard the half sob that came out of her chest.  

“Let’s go to sleep.”  

He made himself comfortable among the pillows; Sorelli stretched to turn off the lamp and made a move to settle on the other side of the bed.  

“Sorelli, come here.”  

At first, she didn’t think the words were aimed at her, despite the use of her very name. She shyly turned towards him and saw his arms were spread widely in a welcoming gesture.  

“I- I didn’t want to bother your sleep.”  

Philippe made an annoyed sound in his throat.  

“I didn’t think I was worthy.” The words were a quiet murmur, directed at herself before anyone else. Unfortunately, the room was completely silent, aside from their respective breathing, and he heard. He reached out for her and pulled her down, fitting her body on his chest. With careful hands, he begun stroking her ruffled hair as she fidgeted with her fingers.  

“What do you think you are to me, Sorelli? Just an object that I happen to use from time to time and dispose of afterwards, that I put in a storage closet when I’m done?”  

She hesitated and he understood her answer was gravitating towards the affirmative.  

“You mean more to me than anybody thinks. You mean more to me that _you yourself_ think.”  

She couldn’t repress a happy laughter erupting from her chest, too violent to be controlled by politeness.  

“What’s so funny?”  

Her arms snaked around him tentatively.  

“Nothing is funny, nothing at all. I just- I think I’m _happy_.”  

His lips pressed on the top of her head and she liked to believe she felt the curve of a smile there.  

“I think I am too, Sorelli.”  

 

The last time she’d seen him, she was laying on her stomach in the middle of the bed, wearing nothing but a smile and his hat, tipped to a side. She was waggling her legs in the air, looking at him adoringly as he put on his clothes with a clumsy haste. It was barely afternoon and she wasn’t accustomed to welcome him at such an early hour, but he said he had a troubled night and morning and needed to relax between continuing the family quarrel at the opera.  

“Raoul needs to grow up and realize his dreams are unattainable. And she… I cannot believe such a respectable young lady conspired with him. She’s either incredibly sly, or incredibly naïve. But, in the end, it is irrelevant which. I might not know her, but I do know my brother. He is too childish for his own good and I can hardly see their plan getting a happy ending.”  

“But Philippe, they love each other…”  

“Love! I suppose it is great to believe in fairytales when you’re a child, but there comes a time when a boy must turn into a man.”  

“And marry with his brain? Seek the approval of his banker sooner than that of his heart?”  

“Sorelli, you don’t understand. It’s not just about the money…”

“All right. I don’t claim to know what’s going on in your life; I have never even asked you, because I knew you won’t be willing to tell me. But I have to say this: they love each other! I have seen the little Daaé lose all her strength on stage, only to get a new rush of emotion and an even more beautiful tone in her voice upon seeing your brother in your box. That kind of emotions, birthed from such a small gesture, can only be a symptom of love, my dear. But she’s a good girl, everybody knows that. She’s modest beyond belief and doesn’t argue when asked to cease the spotlight; she’s always willing to make room for someone else, to give a little of her own happiness to make someone else happy. I know I don’t have any kind of authority in your life, but I’m just saying, maybe you should think twice before separating them by force. She _will_ step down to spare your brother from shame, but is your name really worth causing so much sadness?”  

The Count blinked slowly in her direction and Sorelli felt her cheeks flush at the thought that he might be treating her as a child. But eventually he knelt on the bed and kissed her, before retrieving his hat.  

“For your sake, I promise I’ll think _thrice_ before taking extreme measures. But bear in mind they are both young and unexperienced, and what might seem like the heartbreak of their lives, will be a laughable sentiment during the years to come.” Sorelli smiled resolutely and he indulged in another kiss. “I estimate it will be a few more days until this gets sorted out; I’ll keep my distance, but I promise I’ll see you again, no later than next week.”  

 

The next morning, Sorelli went to church for the first time in her adult years. She didn’t comply with its rules and didn’t need the judgement. But she _was_ superstitious and she found a small promise of communication in the simple gesture of lighting a candle for her dead lover. In that gloomy morning, she left the house on foot, wearing a modest coat and a black scarf tight around her head. The small church between the two crowded streets, with its obnoxious bells that always woke Sorelli up far too early on Sundays, was now the perfect hiding spot and the only place she felt allowed to mourn. She spent a while in that silence, following the play of the shadows casted by her lit candle on the smoked walls. She’d always been on her own and loved the independence, but the thought of him not being there anymore, to hold her shoes and casually brush his hand on hers in the foyer, filled her with a strange sense of solitude.  

She walked in her dressing room and put on her dress, tied up her hair, laced her shoes. Then she sat down on the small sofa, feeling the material with her hands, imagining she could still feel the outline of his body from the many times he’d sat there.  

 

“One more kiss…”  

“Sorelli, please. I have to go. Raoul is waiting for me and he wasn’t looking particularly well. He lets every emotions under the sun get to him and I am worried; I don’t trust he can get home by himself safely.”  

She kept holding onto his arm; she could hear the crowd passing outside her dressing room, but none of those gossip loving snobs could see them, and so she wasn’t afraid to shower him in affection.  

“Philippe, I’m sure he’ll be just fine. One more kiss…”  

Who could resist the plea of the most beautiful eyes in the world? Philippe scoffed, but leaned in, meeting her expecting lips half way. Her fingers gripped the sides of his face and drew him closer; on a whim, her mouth traveled south and brushed against his neck, before he peeled her off with an annoyed gesture.  

“That’s enough for one evening. Have I not promised I’ll be back tomorrow?”  

But Sorelli was too busy looking at the red stain her lipstick left on his impeccable white collar; she must have touched it when he pulled away…  

“What?”  

She pointed at his neck and Philippe turned furious eyes towards the mirror, assessing the damage.  

“Sorelli, you need to be more careful! How am I to go out like this?”  

She was already out of her seat, fiddling with a bottle and a piece of cotton-wool. Then she sat back next to him and moved his head to give herself a better angle on the stained fabric.  

“I apologize for my carelessness, _monsieur le Comte_. Here, allow me…”  

With attentive hands, she rubbed the alcohol soaked ball on his collar, while Philippe sat unmoving and whispered a small apology for his reaction.  

Sorelli had always been too afraid to question her feelings for the Count of Chagny. She knew whatever he felt for her could have not exceeded a physical attraction that spiraled into mild affection sometime along the way; she made herself believe it represented her feeling for him as well, and thus love was out of the question.  

But there, in the solitude of her dressing room, the intimacy of the gesture gave her courage to imagine, if only for a moment, that he was the last man on Earth and she, the last woman, and nothing that happened behind that door was something that could have not happened outside of it. In that small moment, not longer than a heartbeat in the great scheme of the Universe, every emotion was possible… and love had definitely been one of them.  

 

A knock on the door and a few stern words: “Sorelli, you’re due on stage in ten minutes!”  

She shook her head and pressed the last touches of powder on her face; how easy it was to hide the marks of all the crying she had done the previous night! A last look in the mirror before she headed out: the prim-ballerina of the Opera Populaire, mistress of the Count of Chagny! Nobody cared how much she was hurting. She wasn’t allowed to mourn nor to receive any compassionate words; in the world’s eyes, she was nothing more but a girl of the opera, preying on a rich patron. Oh, how vicious were the people who thrived on the gossip, yet could not stand the sight of her! But Sorelli still had a few drops of pride left in her; she took a black ribbon from a drawer and tied it around her bun. It stood out against her pearl white dancing attire and she allowed herself a wicked grin in the mirror.  

“Let them talk. They should know I made him happier than anybody else did.”  

 

The light came over the audience as she took one final bow and looked up, at the box which once belonged to _monsieur Le Comte de Chagny_ , now deserted.  

 _You should be happy, Philippe. I danced for you tonight._  


End file.
